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3anr Aft^r 


□ □ 


A Six Hundred and Fifty 
Mile Tour of American- 
French Battlefields j 


□ □ 

By 

John F. Weedon / 

Room 307 — Peoples Gas Building 
Chicago 

Copyright 1922 by John F. Weedon ^ 



Dsz-s 

,W 4- 


Co |> Y 



DEC -4 *22 

©CU692237 ^ 





I T is strange how a chance meeting, 
or a few casual remarks with a 
stranger may sometimes lead direct 
to important and interesting events in 
our lives. Last winter, in Texas, my 
wife met a mother whose son had lost 
his life in France. She did not know 
exactly how, when or where; except that 
he had died somewhere near the Swiss 
border. She asked us to make some 
inquiries and ascertain if possible 
where her hoy was buried. This my 
wife promised to do. AH the informa- 
tion we had was his name and the 
Army division to which he belonged 
and it looked to me, at first, as if find- 
the grave of a particular soldier 
in France was like finding some par- 
ticular grain of sand on a sea beach. 
However we found that Uncle Sam’s 
care of his dead soldiers was, and is, 
perfectly marvelous. The location of 
the grave caused us no trouble at all, 
but finding it took us, incidentally, 
over many, many miles of war scarred 
territory. 

It took us to Soissons, Chemin de 
Dames, Craonne, Berry-au Bac. ‘Hill 
108’, Rheims, St. Menehould, Argonne, 
Vauquois, Mort-Homme, Fort Douau- 
mont, Montfaucon (Crown Prince’s 
Observatory and headquarters) Ro- 
magne (The American Cemetery, 
25,500 graves) Chalons-sur-Marne, Ep- 
ernay, Chateau-Thierry, Belleau Woods, 
— and back to Paris. 

Our party consisted of about thirty 
people; half of them French and the 
rest Americans. We had two splendid 
large cars, the Americans occupying a 
“White” made in Cleveland, and while 
our guide was a Frenchman and served 
with distinction through the war, he 
had previously been a chef at the Con- 
gress Hotel, Chicago. Our chauffeur 
was an ex-aviator, who at times was 
still possessed with the idea that he 
was operating a flying machine. The 
roads were splendid, and the driver had 
a fixed disinclination to take any one’s 
dust. It gave us a little thrill to have 
the American car pass all the French 
ones, but some of the passengers got 
a little nervous when, at times, the 


speedometer needle pointed to 65, and 
70 — ^However this was “kilometers” 
and not miles, but it still meant some- 
thing close to forty miles an hour, 
which is a pretty fair pace for even 
a heavy sight seeing car. However the 
trip was made without accident of any 
kind, although we had what were ap- 
parently some hair-breadth escapes. 

The Country 

To get an idea of what the war area 
resembles, imagine a country of hills 
and valleys in endless succession. 
These hills are very high and from 
the top of many of them it is no 
difficulty to see fifteen miles in any 
direction. 

The roads along the top of these 
hills are shaded with trees which 
however have been shot away where- 
ever artillery has been at work and 
are now bare and broken stumps, like 
the charred skeletons of some devas- 
tating fire. For miles and miles along 
the Chemin de Dames, for instance, 
there is nothing but these ghastly 
relics of what were once fine shade 
trees. This territory it must be re- 
membered was shelled more or less 
continuously for four years. 

Besides the succession of hills and 
valleys, there are large stretches of 
forests, which look small enough when 
seen from a height, but are of consid- 
erable extent when one gets close to 
them. While this land is extremely 
fertile, and carefully cultivated, — 
where it has been reclaimed, or has 
not been devastated; one sees nothing 
of farm houses; — just country, country, 
country, for distances of about five 
miles. Then comes a little village, 
and for another five miles nothing but 
country again. 

It seems that the people who 
farm these lands live in these villages, 
and travel up and down these roads 
to their respective farms. Crops 
are planted alternately in rows of vari- 
ous width, so that from a distance a 
hill side looks as if it were covered 
with a crazy quilt of odd shapes and 


colors in browns and green. There 
is nothing that marks the end of one 
man’s land and the beginning of an- 
other, except perhaps the color of the 
crop he is growing. The acreage is 
vast, but not given over to one crop, 
as is the case with most of our Amer- 
ican country. Such is a rough des- 
cription of most of the country over 
which we traveled. 

Meaux, Soissons and Hill lOS 

Our first point of interest about 20 
miles from Paris, was “Meaux” where 
the French Army was carried in Paris 
taxi cabs to stop the German advance 
in 1914 — This was the scene of the 
first battle of the Marne. The Marne 
by the way is not a wide river; about 
two-thirds the width of the Chicago 
River at Madison Street, I should say. 
It was here the German Army halted. 
Our guide informed us that the reason 
for this halt was that their infantry 
had entirely outstript the artillery, 
without which they did not wish to 
go further. It has been said that 
they waited here for the Crown Prince 
• to arrive,- but the house was pointed 
out to us which he occupied at that 
time. , The Germans as everybody 
knows were driven back to Soissons, 
some fifty miles further on. Between 
these two places we passed villages in 
ruins, and some completely destroyed 
so that not one stone stands on the 
other and all overgrown with weeds. 
In other places, work is progressing 
of rebuilding the houses, — a process 
I will describe later. 

Soissons remained the pivot for at- 
tacks for four years. It is still badly 
ruined. One part of the church is 
being restored. It was here that we 
saw a way-side church, altar and cru- 
cifix from the shelled church having 
been utilized by the soldiers. The 
French seem to be directing their ac- 
tivities towards restoring, first the 
churches, next the barns and graneries, 
and last their homes. 

Chemin-de-Dames Craonne 
Barry-ua-Bac 

From Soissons we began to get into 
the country of trenches and barbed 
vWire entanglements. Practically no re- 
covery has been made of this territory 
yet. It is very much as the soldiers 
left it in 1918. Acres and acres of 
barbed wire entanglements remain as 
they were placed. In some places 
this barbed wire has been removed and 
piled into heaps. It occupies spaces as 
. large as a city block. By one of the 
terms of agreement the German pris- 


oners were retained after the signing 
of the armistice to do this work, and 
fill in the trenches. I really have no 
means of estimating how much of this 
work was done, but an enormous am- 
ount of it has not been done. I should 
judge at least two-thirds of it still re- 
mains. 

Due to the curious sub-soil of France 
a rather strange condition exists. This 
part of France was once entirely 
under the sea. The sub soil is there- 
fore a clay chalky compositon, said to 
be the fossil remains of sea creatures, 
upon which nothing at all will 

grow, not even weeds. Normally there 
is some two feet of wonderfully fertile 
soil on top of this, but when an exca- 
vation has been made and the sub 
soil thrown up nothing at all will 

grow on it, anymore than you can 

grow grass on chalk. The dug outs 
and trenches were made from this ma- 
terial which gives to this day the 

“scarred” appearance to the landscape 
so often referred to. 

At the Romagne cemetery they 
told us that nothing at all will grow 
in the ground until it has been 
overlaid with a foot or more of soil 
brought from the forests. This is 
being done by trucks and rails — 
which in war time were used for bring- 
ing ammunition and supplies; about 
one third of the cemetery is already 
covered with a top dressing and grass 
is commencing to grow. 

It is a question which I am not able 
to answer whether the trenched coun- 
try will ever again be made to bear 
crops. Nothing short of having the 
area entirely covered with a new top 
dressing would make things grow. It 
is perhaps for this reason that no 
labor has been wasted removing en- 
tanglements and refilling trenches. 

The Chemin-de Dames (The Road of 
Ladies) got its name when Louis 15th 
held court in Rheims, and reserved 
this wonderful road for the sole use of 
the numerous lady friends who visited 
him. It was lined with trees, now noth- 
ing but stark, staring skeletons. For 
miles and miles on either side are en- 
tanglements and trenches I have men- 
tioned. Close by here stood the village 
of Craonne, now nothing but a heap of 
stones, and here too we alighted to 
visit Barry-au Bac (Hill 108) which 
being held by the Germans was tun- 
neled and blown up by the French, 
incidentally destroying 800 French and 
1200 Germans. We stood on the edge 
of the crater caused by this explosion. 
It is 150 feet deep and about 250 in 


diameter. Later we saw larger ones 
but it seemed incredible at the time 
for any human effort to have caused 
an explosion of such gigantic propor- 
tions. A notice requests tourists not 
to disturb the soil as it is practically 
one great grave. 

Plenty of relics can be picked up. 
Rifle shells, from which our guide ex- 
tracted the powder, buckles, helmets, 
canteens and so forth. Unexploded 
mines and caches of ammunition are 
still being constantly discovered and 
destroyed. We were in time to see 
one big explosion of recovered ammuni- 
tion . 

The Hindenburg Line 

It will be remembered that what is 
known as the “Hindenburg Line*’ was 
constructed to lessen the enormous 
loss of life in the German Army. The 
“line" still stands. It consists of a 
series of cement forts, with circular 
shaped domes made of railroad iron 
and cement, walls eighteen inches 
thick. The tops of these forts rise two 
or three feet above the ground, but are 
covered with sod. 

The openings from which the ma- 
chine and larger guns were flred are 
protected with cement doors on hinges 
of enormous weight and thickness, 
which nevertheless work fairly easily 
even now. 

These forts stand about one hundred 
feet apart all down the road and are 
connected by underground tunnels. 
How far this system remains intact I 
do not know, but the part we saw could 
be utilized as a fort, on very short 
notice. 

Rheim« 

Rheims, — ^the French people pro- 
nounce it “Rhannes” — was under fire 
for four years. It contained about 
12,000 houses and 176,000 inhabitants. 
At the close of the war only ten 
houses remained untouched, the rest 
were ruins. It is today a skeleton 
of a city - that - was. During the 
advance of 1914 it was occupied by 
the Germans. The house in which the 
Crown Prince stayed is still partly 
standing, so is the beautiful cathedral 
in which he stabled his horses. Oppo- 
site his house is a little tobacco shop, 
occupied by the old woman who was 
there in 1914 — ^The Crown Prince used 
to come across the street and help 
himself to the best tobacco and cigars. 
During these visits she beat it to the 
basement, — and he left no payment. 
She sold us very good cigars at a 
franc a piece. 



Wayside Crucifix Saved from Ruined 
Church Near Soissons 


The old French houses were built 
of stone and built very strongly, 
that is the reason so many walls 
remain standing where there is ab- 
solutely nothing to hold them up. 
Rheims was bombarded from a dist- 
ance of five miles. The bombs falling 
perpendicularly, had a tendency to go 
through the roof clean to the basement, 
blowing out doors and windows but 
leaving most of the structure standing. 
This is what makes Rheims a town 
of skeleton buildings. 

The town was famous for its Cathed- 
ral, its wines, and woolens. Most of 
the cellars were made for storing wine 
and are of course very deep; what we 
would call sub-cellars. This is also 
one reason why so many of the 
houses, or rather walls remain stand- 
ing; the bombs exploded so deep down 
in the earth. Considering that in one 
week no less than seventy thousand 
shells were poured on it, an average 
of ten thousand a day it is a marvel 
that anything remains at all. 

I am not entirely a believer in mir- 
acles, but I give you this fact for what 



it is worth. The Bishop of Rheims 
remained in the city during the entire 
four years. He had a bed placed in a 
shallow basement on the side of his 
house, which was knocked about his 
ears. He came out of the war physi- 
cally untouched. During the war he 
was visited by the President and Staff 
of the French Republic and was dec- 
orated, (in a deep sub-cellar by the 
bye, for the town was still occasionally 
bombarded) with the legion of honor. 
Rheims has something to boast about 
besides the ‘‘Jackdaw.’’ 

We strolled around the streets one 
moonlight night, and the effect of the 
light through the ruins was very awe 
inspiring; and this effect was greatly 
heightened by the fact that every once 
in a while voices reached us from queer 
corners, where we would find some 
little section had been repaired and 
was being inhabited. It seemed doub- 
ly strange to find human beings living 
practically alongside these gruesome 
skeletons of houses, without roofs, 
floors, windows or doors. 

The Cathedral is in process of re- 
contruction, and a good deal of work 
has been done on it. In many in- 
stances glancing shots have come lit- 
erally down the sides, making strange 
grotesques of the statuary, taking a 
head from one and an arm from an- 
other. In all standing walls and build- 
ings, mostly built of grey stone, the 
appearance is somewhat similar to the 
face of a man pitted with small pox. 

Fort de la Pompelle and Vienne la 
Chateau — Argonne 

This is a particularly well construct- 
ed Fort, built by the French before the 
war and practically impregnable. 
Owing to the fact that the French drew 
supplies from the rear, where they were 
well protected, the Germans found it 
impossible to take this Fort. How- 
ever they held the heights at some 
considerable distance. With a per- 
sistence which seems almost incredible 
they tunneled the entire distance, but 
through a miscalculation blew up a 
harmless but perfectly good farmhouse 
some hundred yards away. 

Vienne-le Chateau is reached by a 
road that is litdradly honeycombed 
with dug-outs. It gives the road the 
appearance of having been some an- 
cient Aztec village. Much of the cam- 


ouflage, dried and fluttering in the 
wind still remains. The poultry wire 
which camouflaged the sides and over- 
heads of the road is still standing in 
many places, with pieces of what was 
once vegetation still clinging to it. 
The “Hostelerie-de-Argonne, where we 
stopped for lunch, was the Headquart- 
ers of the famous “Lost Battalion.” 
On the walls can still be seen the army 
notices posted by them, and never dis- 
turbed since. 

Just before we came to this place we 
visited a field hospital, the most mar- 
velous of its kind I ever saw. It was 
built at a place where the road dipped 
down from the surrounding country, 
thus making it possible to have a pro- 
tected underground refuge with an 
entrance practically on the level. It 
was equipped with operating rooms, 
supply department, and “chambers’” 
sufficient to accomodate about one hun- 
dred wounded. Stretchers and some 
of the beds were still lying around the 
place. In the party previous to ours 
was a surgeon who had served in this 
same hospital, and he recounted that 
the French nurses had supplied the 
need for blood transfusions, whenever 
such had been necessary. They did 
this voluntarily and with no let-up to 
their regular round of duties. 

Varennes and Vauquois 

We passed through Varennes, fam- 
ous before the war as the place where 
Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were 
captured and carried back to the exe- 
cution in Paris; now a tumbled heap 
of ruins, like the rest of the villages 
through which we passed. Stone ma- 
sons are at work in all these villages, 
some houses have been rebuilt and the 
work is progressing, but there is an 
enormous lot still to do. The stones 
from the ruined houses have been 
cleaned off and laid in orderly piles 
and are being used on the new work. 
Due to the solid manner in which all 
these French houses were constructed 
any wall left standing is utilized to 
build on to, unless of course it is too 
badly damaged to be safe. The new 
houses are being built on the same 
lines as the old ones, but not so solidly. 
I was told this was impractical on ac- 
count of increased expense of building. 
Masons receive about three dollars a 
day, and I judge that building opera- 
tions are not hampered by any Build- 
ing Trade Union’s restrictions. 


We visited Vauquois; a mountain 
literally split in two by underground 
explosions which left a crater between 
the two halves that a mountain goat 
could not traverse. It seems that op- 
posite sides of this mountain were 
held by the French and Germans, each 
of whom contributed towards the con- 
struction of this crater in the hope of 
dislodging their enemy. Our guides were 
particularly anxious that we should 
visit the German “galleries,” — an ex- 
tensive system of underground tunnels 
and passages. 

As the climb to the top of the 
mountain was of itself a work of 
some considerable effort the weaker 
ones of the party were left be- 
hind. This proved to be very fortun- 
ate. We found a concealed opening 
at the top, were each given a candle 
and began to descend. The steps 
were just slimy ledges of chalk and 
clay, oftentimes broken entirely, and 
they wound round and round like 
the steps to a turret. An electric wire 
hung on one side, which enabled us 
to steady ourselves with one hand 
while the other grasped the candle. 
This slippery slimy descent seemed to 
have no end, but at last we came to 
the “galleries.” 

Some one ventured to ask the 
guide if he was sure he knew the 
way out, as the exit by the way 
we came seemed to offer some very 
considerable difficulties; in many 
places we went down sheer drops by 
the aid of iron ladders that felt none 
too safe. The guide said “You think 
I should be a fool to take you some 
place I could not get you out. To get 
out is easy.” So we began our ex- 
ploration of the “galleries.” 

They were damp and slimy; the wood- 
work was rotten and sagging, and a 
queer kind of fungus growth like damp 
brown moss hung from the top and 
sides and brushed our faces. Most 
of the time we had insufficient head 
room and had to proceed in a stooping 
posture, which soon made us all liter- 
ally and figuratively very tired, the 
air was bad and there was a great 
variety of unpleasant smells. Never- 
theless we stopped to inspect a tunnel, 
laid with narrow gauge rails, through 
which the Germans brought supplies 
and ammunition. We also turned aside 
to look at the bunks in which they 


slept; wooden racks like steerage 
quarters in an old time emigi^ant vessel. 
Just so that we would not miss any- 
thing the guide corailed us in a cham- 
ber of rotting timbers which the dim 
light of our candles only seemed to 
make darker and more depressing. He 
tossed a stone in the corner and it was 
some seconds before we heard the 
noise of it falling in the water. This, 
he told us, was the well which the Ger- 
mans had dug to keep them supplied 
with water. 

We had had enough of these horrors, 
and refused to see anymore*. We made 
a concerted demand on the guide to 
take us out by the shortest route. ‘‘Oh, 
getting out is easy, you see” he said.” 
But we did not, neither did he. Since 
his previous visit all the entrances 
and exits to this place had been 
closed, except the one by which we 
entered, which for some reason had 
been overlooked. 

The reason they had been closed 
was that a considerable cache of 
unused ammunition, and several un- 
exploded mines had just been dis- 
covered. Fortunately we did not 
know this when we were down there. 
Our one desire was to get back to day- 
light, and we were ready to eat up the 
difficulties that lay before us if only 
we could get there. 

If it had not been for the time 
and place I think that guide would 
have been treated to such a sample 
of forcible United States, that he 
would have concluded he had found 
an entirely new language. As it was 
we had little breath for anything but 
the climb back. By judicious hoist- 
ing and shoving we eventually all re- 
turned, somewhat soiled but heartily 
thankful. One gentleman, a mining 
engineer well known in America and 
of international reputation, to whom 
ordinary coal mines are a matter of 
every day business, said that had he 
known what he was going into no in- 
ducement on earth would have per- 
suaded him to undertake it. 

Conditions may have been somewhat 
sweeter when the Germans lived there, 
and certainly they managed somehow 
to have electric light, but I am con- 
vinced that, personally, I would much 
prefer a quick death outside to spend- 
ing only a few hours in those awful 
galleries. 


It is of course nobody’s business to 
keep these galleries and tunnels in 
repair and it can only be a question 
of a short time when they will have 
to be closed to tourists. This should 
be done before some serious accident 
occurs. 

Verdun 

From Vauquois to Verdun we passed 
a country scarred everywhere with 
wire entanglements and trenches, dug- 
outs and desolation. We found how- 
ever a very comfortable hotel in Ver- 
dun. Senegambian and Morrocon sol- 
diers are quartered in barracks close 
by. Verdun is not as badly shattered 
as Rheims, but is quite considerably 
shot up. Our hotel room faced a ruin 
ready to fall. The debris from the 
roof, (the front was out) had fallen 
on the middle floor which had assumed 
the shape of a V. It seemed as if the 
additional weight of a good shower 
of rain must bring the whole thing 
crashing to the ground. 

Strolling round the ruins and nar- 
row streets of Verdun after supper I 
was talking to my wife, when someone 
behind us said: “Oh say, something 
more. It sounds good to hear United 
States again.” The speaker was a 
gentleman from Indianapolis who had 
been in the south of France travelling 
alone, and “on his own” — as the Eng- 
lish say, which means that he was not 
attached to any tourist party. He said 
he had stood on the other side of the 
bridge just to hear some people talk 
English, but the American accent was 
what really warmed his heart. 

This was particularly gratifying to 
me, as some of my misguided Chicago 
friends try to insist that I talk with 
an English accent. This can no longer 
be open to argument, my Verdun ad- 
venture proves the contrary beyond 
peradventure or appeal. 

As a relief from the sepulchers of 
sacriflce we visited a Verdun candy 
factory next morning. They were very 
nice to us, gave us plentifully of 
their product, and staged a little sur- 
prise for us. We were all called 
around a table on which stood what 
appeared to be an enormous bomb; 
shell shaped. The attached fuse was 
lighted and we watched it burn down 
and Anally explode with just enough 
noise to make the ladies say “Oh,” 
The bomb proved to be made of choco- 
late and fllled with all kinds of candies, 
all of which, including pieces of the 
chocolate “bomb” were secured for 
“souvenirs ; ” — but disappeared before 
noon. 


The Ossuaire. Turrene Tunnel. 

Not far from Verdun is the “Ossu- 
aire.” It is a small chapel, presided 
over by a French Priest, Father Noel. 
It contains a large number of coffin 
shaped boxes in which are deposited 
bones picked up on the battlefleld. 
Each box is labeled with the location 
where its contents were discovered. 
The Priest explained to us, in French, 
and he had a marvelously sweet voice, 
that the purpose of the chapel was to 
provide a place for the relatives and 
friends of those whose dead had been 
lost upon these battleffelds and whose 
bodies had never been recovered for 
burial. 

Here they might come to pray, if 
they wished. This chapel by the bye, 
was a gift from Americans, and the 
Knights of Columbus have promised 
some money shall be forthcoming to 
build a suitable shrine. At least this 
is what we understood the priest to 
say. 

Fort Vaux 

Shortly further on is the Turenne 
Tunnel; an old railroad tunnel used 
by the French for war purposes. Mules 
were utilized to bring up ammunition, 
and one of them loaded with explosives 
tried to scratch himself on the walls 
of the tunnel, causing an explosion 
that buried over one thousand French 
soldiers. 

The next point of interest was Fort 
Vaux. This was obstinately held by a 
small force of French. Like the 
other French Forts it is built 
on top of a high hill, with extensive 
galleries underground. Their source 
of supplies was cut off, and shell Are 
destroyed their means of procuring 
water. The Fort was tunnelled into by 
the Germans, who evidently preferred 
to capture it rather than blow it up. 
For three days without food or water 
the French held the fort against at- 
tacks of liquid Are, and other unusual 
means of assault. Of ten soldiers who 
started out to obtain water only one 
returned with a small bottle. 

The French Anally surrendered, and 
it is something to the credit of the Ger- 
man commander that he refused to ac- 
cept the Frenchman’s sword, after he 
discovered the conditions under which 
the place had been defended. This 
Fort proved as unfortunate for the 
Germans as it had for the French and 
they held it only about six months. 
The works are extensive, excellently 
planned and well built, but due to 


some peculiarities of location the mat- 
ter of supplies and water present dif- 
ficulties that seem impossible to con- 
tinuously overcome. 

Duamont and Montfaucon 

In Duamont is “The Trench of Bayo- 
nets.” Sixty-five soldiers of Brittany 
were buried alive by an exploding 
shell just as they were about to “go 
over the top.” You can count them 
by the bayonets and the tops of their 
guns protruding above the ground. Mr. 
Rand, a Banker from Buffalo, N. Y; 
whose brother was killed fighting in 
this part of the country was so im- 
pressed by this extraordinary circum- 
stance that he induced the French 
Government to allow him to turn this 
spot into a permanent cemetery, just 
as it stood. 

He caused a sort of peristyle 
of granite columns to be built over 
the trench, supporting a roof of the 
same material. Iron Gates and a hand- 
some stone archway and steps mark 
the approach. 

Shortly after making the above ar- 
rangements Mr. Rand was killed in an 
airplane crash, fiying back from Paris 
to London. 

Montfaucon was the Headquarters of 
the Crown Prince. It is a substan- 
tial house of granite, cement and rail- 
road iron, constructed on an emi- 
nence which commands a view of the 
country circling around. One may see 
fifteen miles with the naked eye in any 
direction. 

The Prince had a periscope which 
probably enabled him to see further. 
The point is the center of a circle 
thirty miles in diameter. The in- 
terior of the house is roomy and 
comfortable, with the usual elaborate 
retreats underground. The principle 
feature is an enormous square struc- 
ture of cement which runs all the way 
up the center of the building and out 
on the roof. This is hollow and con- 
tained the periscope. The periscope 
itself was captured by American sol- 
diers and can now be seen at West 
Point; so I am told. 

Over the whole building is the ap- 
parently wrecked roof of some big farm- 
house, its purpose being to camouflage 
the structure and make aviators believe 



Ruins of the Church Montfaucon 


it was nothing but some old cow 
shed or farm building. One thing 
which impressed me was the thickness 
of the floor between the first and sec- 
ond story.lt is made of railroad iron 
and solid cement, from twelve to four- 
teen inches thick. From the weight 
of this one may guess the substantial 
nature of the lower part of the build- 
ing. Here also are the ruins of a 
marvelously beautiful church, built by 
monks in the 9th Century, The floor 
is full of old gravestones with ancient 
French spelling. The beautiful trac- 
ery on some window copings, which 
still remain standing can be made out. 
There is a great deal of marble scat- 
tered around. From this material the 
Germans constructed a look-out. 

From here we passed on to “The 
Valley of Death’’ where seventy thou- 
sand Frenchmen gave up their lives 
for their country. We passed the vil- 
lage of Bras; completely destroyed, 
and came to the village of Samogneux, 
which the French and Americans took 
and lost three times in one day, final- 
ly, of course holding it, and from there 
we came to a section which deserves a 
chapter by itself. 




The American Cemetery at Romagne 


I started in by saying that we were 
led to take this tour through a desire 
to visit, on behalf of a mother, the 
grave of her son. We first applied 
to the office of the Chicago Daily News 
in Paris who directed us to the Regis- 
tration of Graves, at No. 8 Rue D’lena. 
All we had was the name of the boy 
and the unit to which he was attached. 
We did not know where or when he 
died. In less than five minutes after 
we stated our case at the Registration 
office we were given a type-written 
slip giving the name and location of 
the cemetery, the lot number and the 
grave number. We had now come to 
the place where he was buried. 

The Romagne cemetery is situated on 
a battlefield in the Argonne district, 
one of the latest in the war where 
thousands of our American boys gave 
up their lives. The cemetery contains 
about twenty-five thousand graves, 
everyone an American, and less than 
one thousand of them remain unidenti- 
fied. The unidentified are buried in 
a lot by themselves, but as soon as 
identification is complete, (and the 
most extraordinary means are taken 
to procure absolute identification), the 
remains are re-buried in the identified 
section, with name and regiment re- 
corded on the cross, which are iden- 
tical on every grave, except for those of 
Hebrew faith. These are distinguished 
by the star of Israel. 

There are six exclusively American 
cemeteries in France, one in Belgium 
and one in England, (at Wibking). To 
correct some erroneous impression in 
regard to the French cemeteries let me 
say that they are “American Terri- 
tory;" deeded to the United States by 
the French government, without fee 
or payment of any kind. The Ameri- 
can Flag flies over them. 

- We were met at the entrance to the 
cemetery by an American Army officer 
in charge; Captain Ross. We explained 
the particular object of our visit and 
he sent at once to the chaplain, a 
very fine gentleman. I do not know 
his rank, but his name is Smith and 


he comes from San Antonio, Texas. 
He at once took us in charge, for by 
this time all our fellow tourists were 
interested in our search. When we ar- 
rived at the grave, to which he led 
us directly, he said “Don’t you think 
it would be a comfort to his mother 
to know that we all, Americans, com- 
patriots of his, — stood here and held 
just a little memorial service in honor 
of a brave man?’’ So he made a very 
appropriate and touching prayer; just 
a few words, and we all joined in the 
Lords Prayer, and then a young man 
from Detroit who had come along and 
kindly brought his camera took a pic- 
ture of the grave, so that we might 
have something tangible to send to his 
mother; and that was all. We placed 
a few flowers we had brought with us, 
they were “immortelles,” on the grave 
and they were allowed to remain 
there a couple of days; for the rules 
do not permit any difference to be made 
in style or decoration of graves. All 
are treated alike, officers and men. 

Each grave is marked with a white 
wooden cross on which is printed the 
name and regiment. For fear of de- 
facement this information is also em- 
bossed on a strip of metal and nailed 
on the back. These wooden crosses 
are to be replaced with white marble 
crosses with the same inscription. 
When these are put up the friends 
can have any verse or inscription put 
on that they desire, up to 125 letters. 
There is also to be a marble memorial 
chapel where tablets may be erected 
by those who desire to do so. 

A very large number of men are 
employed in this cemetery, many of 
them Russians that were held prison- 
ers by the Germans, a good percentage 
of them were men of considerable rank 
and not a few were noblemen. They 
are men of education but prefer to 
work with pick and shovel; a return 
to their own country being impossible 
for them. The chaplain told us that 
twenty-two languages were spoken in 
that cemetery. 

I stated previously that the subsoil of 
this cemetery is capable of raising noth- 
ing. Consequently a large part of the 
ground is devoid of any growth at all. 
Narrow gauge trucks and rails, — which 
were used during the war for supplies 
and ammunition, are now laid to the 
forests, and as rapidly as possible the 
ground is being overlaid with a new 
top soil, which will grow grass and 
flowers. Part of the ground has al- 
ready been dressed in this fashion, 


but it is the work of considerable 
magnitude to cart a top dressing of 
twelve to eighteen inches over a terri- 
tory as extensive as this. 

Chaplain Smith informed us that 
there is a permanent and liberal re- 
ward offered to the iFrench people for 
the discovery of the remains of any 
American soldier. The slightest clew 
is followed with extraordinary care 
and pains, and no effort is spared to 
complete identification. Recently a 
body was discovered, with a watch on 
which were engraved initials. The army 
lists were consulted to ascertain who 
had these initials, then those who by 
no manner of means could have been 
near the spot were eliminated and 
the friends of the rest were written 
to and asked for particulars as to the 
watch. The effort resulted in a per- 
fect identification. This burial took 
place only a short time before we ar- 
rived. Chaplain Smith reads the 
burial service over each, and his wife 
stands as representative of mother and 
friends. 

The United States Government 
comes in for a good deal of unfavorable 
criticism in regard to treatment of 
its soldiers, some of which may be de- 
served, but from my own personal 
experience I can vouch for the fact 
that the Registration of Graves and 
the Romagne Cemetery are two of the 
most perfectly ordered organizations 
that any country could command, or 
any mother desire. For those poor 
boys who lost their lives in a war on 
foreign soil, I can imagine no better 
resting place than under the American 
Flag in the cemetery at Romagne. 

The Argonne Forest 

The Argonne Forest covers two hills 
with a deep valley between. It may 
be a thousand yards between the sides 
of these hills. It is a dense and beau- 
tiful forest. I think the most beauti- 
ful I have ever seen. Buried away in 
the densest part of it was the Head- 
quarters of Prince Rupert of Bavaria. 
You get to them by a winding path 
through the woods, and evidently 
the Prince did not like getting his 
shoes wet and muddy as the path is 
laid with evenly sawed branches with 
the bark still on them, one or two 
inches thick. The house itself is a 
comfortable little country dwelling, 
built partly into the side of the hill. 
The first room was the “office” the sec- 
ond a sitting room, third dining room, 


and the fourth a tiled bath room. Only 
part of the marble tiling remains, the 
rest having been carried off by souv- 
enir hunters. iWe thought at first that 
the walls had wall-paper, but found it 
was all hand decorated and very taste- 
fully done. Underground are the 
usual “dug-out” quarters, quite spaci- 
ous and airy, compared to some. In 
spite of our previous experiences we 
traversed some of the underground 
tunnels, (the forest, this part of it at 
least is fairly honeycombed with tun- 
nels), and found a convenient exit at 
no very great distance. We really had 
had enough of underground tunnels 
and were not overly keen about going 
into more. Other houses, less palatial 
but similarly built and quite comfort- 
able evidently housed some members 
of his staff, and the kitchens, were at 
some distances across a ravine. Out- 
side the residence of the Prince was a 
little sort of terrace, where we found 
traces of a fiower garden, and several 
thrifty plants, not at all indigenous to 
forests. The entire place was com- 
pletely concealed with trees and shrub- 
bery. One might roam that forest for 
four years and never find it. The for- 
est itself is large enough to conceal 
the whole German Army, or a big part 
of it at least. Everywhere we came 
upon entrances to dug outs and tun- 
nels. Given opportunity to obtain 
necessary supplies an army might 
exist there until it died of old age. 
No human machinery could dislodge 
it. 



The Grave we sought. 



We overstayed our time in this won- 
derful forest, and gave our ex-aviator 
chauffeur a chance to show what he 
could do. We had to make Chalons- 
sur-Marne in time for supper and it 
was some fifty or sixty miles distant, 
but the road was straight and excellent 
all the way. Even at that when the 
speedometer hand began pointing to 
the sixty-five and seventy mark some 
of the passengers showed signs of un- 
easiness. However, when the guide 
assured them it registered “Kilo- 
meters” and not miles, they settled 
back to figure how many miles sixty- 
five kilos was. I think they decided 
it was somewhere near forty. How- 
ever before they got it settled we 
reached our destination, where we 
stayed for the night. Chalons-sur- 
Marne is an old city that dates back 
to the time of Charlemagne, who once 
held court here. Not badly damaged. 

Epernay — Chateau Thierry — 
Balleau Woods. 

At Rheims we rested close to the 
quarters made famous by the wine 
of the widow Cliquot. Like other 
places in Rheims, the Cliquot estab- 
lishment was in ruins. This however 
was' not the case with the establish- 
ment of Messrs Moet and Chandon, at 
Epernay. which was very slightly dam- 
aged. The Germans entered Epernay 
in 1914 but evidently under the im- 
pression that they would have ample 
opportunity to enjoy it later they did 
very little harm. We were invited 
to inspect the “wine caves” of M,essrs 
Moet and Chandon and see for our- 
selves how champagne is made. 

Don Perignon, Abbe of Hauterville, 
discovered in the year 1650 that the 
juice of the grape could be made to 
ferment without the addition of any 
chemical or extraneous matter, — which 
is the secret of champagne. It is pure 
grape juice, but not the kind that 
William Jennings Bryan uses. For 
three centuries the family of Moet 
and Chandon have made champagne. 
It is a family, not a firm or corpora- 
tion and something of the extent of 
the business may be judged from the 
fact that the wine caves extend under- 
ground for a total distance of 
EIGHTEEN MILES. In spite of the 
enormous premises only about six hun- 
, dred people are employed. The “caves” 
are, of course, underground and re- 
semble large well lighted railroad tun- 
nels, except for the fact that they are 
very damp and cold. Many women 
are engaged in various stages of the 


work. I inquired as to the “rheumatic 
result” of working in _such a cold 
damp place and was told that special 
pension provisions were made to cover 
this condition — which is freely ac- 
knowledged. 

The wine is drawn from huge casks 
and bottled. It is then placed in racks, 
corks slanting downwards. These 
bottles are shaken up by hand every 
day. When the sediment settles in the 
cork end the bottle is placed in a 
freezing machine. Then the cork is 
removed and the frozen sediment part 
ejected, and the man smells the con- 
tents. I don’t blame him, but just 
why he does it I don’t know. The 
bottle then goes over to the syrup man, 
who puts in a small dose, a double 
dose, or none at all, according to the 
desired quality of the wine, sweet, dry, 
or extra dry. After that there is some 
more process of ageing, storing and 
packing, that is not particularly diff- 
erent from any other process of a sim- 
ilar nature. 

We were then invited into a guest 
room and urged to sample the product. 
Now I was brought up to believe that 
none but a heathen would drink cham- 
pagne at eleven o’clock in the morning, 
especially after a French breakfast 
which is nothing more than a cup of 
coffee or chocolate and a small roll 
shot full of holes. But of course one 
does not visit Moet & Chandon every 
day of his life. The host and the 
guides are very pressing, — and maybe 
there is more than a little heathen in 
some of us still. Anyhow there were 
a lot of empty bottles standing on the 
table when we rose to depart. I pro- 
tested when the guide came around the 
third, or maybe the fourth time, but 
he seemed to take a childish delight 
in popping corks. He explained to 
; — “This is a leedle trick of mine; 
You drink some wine and I don’t have 
to work so hard to show you things.” 
— Maybe, speaking generally, he was 
right. 

There is one thing to be said about 
drinking in France; good drinking 
water is hard to get. The price of our 
tour included all hotel, tips and other 
expenses including wine and cham- 
pagne, but did not specify water. Con- 
sequently we were charged extra for 
it whenever we ordered it; two francs 
seventy-five centimes a bottle, which 
a^lthough it bore a label contained 
nothing but just plain well water. At 
many of the Cafes in Paris they state 


plainly on the menu card that a small 
additional charge will be made if you 
do not order wine. 

This is a digression. We left 
Epernay to go to the scene of the 
second battle of the Marne, — the 
“Bloody Marne” the French call it. 
The Germans tried time and time again 
to cross here. Forty-five thousand bombs 
were dropped on them and over sixty 
thousand killed. The river actually 
ran red. I neglected to mention that 
both our guides, both drivers and one 
of our party, an American doctor 
had served in this section during the 
war, and furnished us with much first 
hand information that is not in the 
history books. 

On the road skirting Belleau Woods 
are two stone monuments. One 
marks the place of beginning of the 
famous charge of our marint-s, the 
other one the place where they halted. 
Fierce battles raged around Chateau 
Thierry and Belleau Woods but the 
places are not so badly shot up and 
scarred as are some others. This is 
due to the fact that less artillery was 
used; there was more hand to hand 
fighting, and also for the fact that the 
American army did not go in for 
trench fighting exclusively. The Germans 
were intrenched in the Woods, the 
ground our boys had to cover was just 
open prairie, without as far as I 
could see a really sizeable bunch of 
weeds to act as cover. They must 
just have attacked in open formation 
on their nerve and on their stomachs. 
The bridge they blew up at Chateau 
Thierry has been replaced with a tem- 
porary affair. There is still evidence 
of hard fighting around this quarter. 

On one side of the Marne here is a 
sort of Museum and Childrens reclama- 
tion and social center, run by the 
Methodist Episcopal church. They 
appear to be doing excellent work, on 
the order of Hull House and other 
similar institutions. Their enterprise 
include a creche for babies, whose 
mothers have to work in fields or fac- 
tories. The babies look healthy and 
well cared for. I have never been in 
a country or community where children 
appeared to be as universally loved 
and cared for as in France. All the 



At Verdun — years after. 


people in every condition of life seem 
to love children and animals. Of the 
latter let me say that good dogs are 
quite scarce in France and command 
a high price. During the war all dogs 
not actually doing some sort of war 
work were killed; hence the present 
shortage. Quentin Roosevelt fell not 
far from here, and in this museum 
they have the radiator, pierced with 
shot, and part of his airplane. 

And so we travelled back to Paris. 
We saw so much that some of our facts 
may be somewhat jumbled and con- 
fused. Impressions succeeded each 
other so rapidly that they had a tend- 
ency to overlay and merge. I have 
tried to keep them as correct and sepa- 
rate as possible, but heaven send no 
such war again. Cannot we try to 
inculcate a little international love 
and toleration with our national pride. 
God made us what we are, why should 
we seek to destroy each other? 




Guns of Peace 

Ghosts of dead soldiers in the 'battle slain, 

Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far 
In the long patience of inglorious war, 

Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence and pain , — 

All ye whose loss makes up our vigorous gain — 

This quiet night, as sounds the cannon’s tongue. 

Do ye look down the' trembling stars among, 

Viewing our peace and war with like disdain? 

Or, wiser grown since reaching those new spheres. 
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sow*d as seed 
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed? 

Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears — 

''Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurVd, 

And make all wars to cease throughout the world.’* 

D. M. Craik 





















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